


The Paths We Walk

by clarkegriffvn



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: ALSO PLOT TWIST, AWESOME FIGHT SEQUENCE, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Banter, Criminal AU, Criminal Bellamy, F/M, Guns, Robbery, Vigilante AU, Vigilante Clarke, ark city, everyone is a badass, i relate to everyone in this fic bc i am also beautiful and want to fight everything, minor blood and violence, oh yeah lots of plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkegriffvn/pseuds/clarkegriffvn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AKA beer and burglary and intense banter with your friendly neighbourhood vigilante)</p><p>Prompt: She never misses, she never quits, and never loses. If you’re alive, it’s because she wants you alive.</p><p>Summary: Bellamy runs a small delinquent crime ring with his sister. The local vigilante, The Artist, corners him during a big break-in, but things don’t play out as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Paths We Walk

Ark City was a goddamned mess, and everyone knew it. Headlines blared: _ARK CITY, NEW HELL’S KITCHEN?_ which he scoffed at, _POLICE CHIEF MILLER HAS STROKE, RETIRES_ which he frowned at, and _CRIME ON THE RISE AGAIN_ , which he barely glanced at. But on the third page was a headline that really caught Bellamy Blake’s eye.

Next to a shocking photograph of a man sitting at a child’s tea party in a dank back alley, it read _THE ARTIST STRIKES AGAIN_. The man was slumped in a tiny pink chair, unconscious. On the wall behind him was spray-painted the word _MURDERER_. A pink skipping rope bound him to the table. Around him three little girl dolls were posed drinking tea, all with name tags. Bellamy recognized the names, but didn’t realize why until his eyes skipped down to the photo’s description.

_'The dolls are labelled as Annabelle Free, Jacky Conway, Farida Abdou, three young girls who were killed four years ago. The man is John Yantz, the primary suspect in the case, who escaped custody.'_

Bellamy’s eyes scanned the rest of the article, catching phrases like “police baffled” and “The Artist’s fourth vigilante strike” and “street justice.” Halfway down the page was a blurry photograph. It depicted a figure in a fitted black trench coat, a plain red mask haloed by long blonde hair. The red mask covered her whole face and was tied in the back, the only features to it being indents for the eyes, a bump to accommodate the nose and a perfect pair of lips sculpted into the hard material.

Bellamy fought back the urge to roll his eyes. Sure, it was great that they caught the murderer– that wasn’t what bothered him. His disdain was strictly professional: Bellamy Blake was a criminal himself, and the last thing he needed in his city was another vigilante.

The paper was tossed aside as Bellamy pushed all thoughts of The Artist away. His hand snatched his cell phone out of his pocket, finding a contact named _The Better Blake_. The person on the other line answered almost immediately.

“Wassup big bro?”

“Octavia. Get a hold of Monty and Miller and clear your schedule for the next week. We’re hitting Fitzgerald’s.”

 

* * *

 

“They’re here!” chirped Octavia, launching herself across Bellamy’s apartment to get the door.

Bellamy tossed aside the pen he was chewing on and rose from his seat to greet his friends (and co-workers).

Monty entered first, holding up a case of beer that Bellamy took gladly. When Miller showed up behind him, Octavia threw her arms around him. The hug lasted a few seconds longer than Miller seemed prepared for, but he didn’t look too awkward, so Bellamy took it as a good sign.

Octavia peeled herself off him, and he nodded his thanks and greeting at her.

“You okay?” she asked, her face the picture of concern.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, brushing her off. There was an edge of irritation in his voice, and Bellamy saw the way Monty’s lips pinched in worry. Clearly Miller wasn’t dealing with his father’s stroke and early retirement well. Bellamy tried to brush away his own concern, figuring that Monty would help sort Miller out well enough.

“Come on in guys,” Bellamy said, smoothing things over. “Let’s get down to business.”

 

* * *

 

William Fitzgerald lived in an inner-city apartment complex on the corner of 42nd– it was oozing money. Stealing from him was something Bellamy’s crew had always dreamed of. When they were first getting into the swing of big thefts and scams, they would practice by planning hypothetical ones. Over the years their fantasies about Fitzgerald’s priceless goods and security systems had become increasingly wild and imaginative, but the truth, as Bellamy had recently discovered, was much more simple.

“Last month I had an informant tell me that Fitzgerald was importing an emerald ring, worth half a million. Last week they were able to figure out it's location.”

He looked around his living room, analyzing everyone’s expressions. Octavia was leaning braced on the back of the couch to the side of where Monty and Miller sat, her eyes alight. Monty, in the middle of the couch, immediately looked to Miller, who was at his side. The second boy’s eyes were narrowed in thought.

“Can you trust them?” Miller asked, hosting a skeptical frown.  

“They’re the best of the best,” Bellamy answered, taking care not to give away Echo’s name or gender. He waited for Miller’s nod of satisfaction before continuing. “Apparently there’s a safe in Fitzgerald’s office, behind a painting of a woman in a black dress. The ring was moved there last night.”

“But it won’t be there long if we have anything to say about it,” quipped Octavia, grinning.

“Exactly.”

“So what’s the master plan?” Monty asked. Bellamy saw the way his fingers twitched, eager to hack into Fitzgerald’s famous security system. If anyone Bellamy knew could do it, it would be Monty Green.

“Well you know the drill. Do your techno-stuff, black the cameras, tell us if anyone’s gonna blow our cover. Find out if he has any extra security layers. Pick his system apart until it doesn’t have legs left to stand on.” Monty nodded, brows furrowed as he began considering how he was going to do it. Then Bellamy turned to Miller. “I need you to seduce the building’s receptionist so I can get the employee all-access pass. Then–” Monty pulled a face. “What?”

“What if it’s a girl?” Monty argued. “We all know he’s a shitty actor! You’re the resident Romeo, Bellamy, you do it.”

Bellamy quirked up an eyebrow at Monty’s point. Sure it was valid (Miller was indeed horrible actor, and hella gay) but Bellamy wondered if Monty had an ulterior motive. He held eye contact with Monty a second longer, but the guy refused to give Bellamy anything, so he rolled his eyes.

“Fine. I’ll seduce the receptionist, Miller, you get the all-access pass. Then you can use the employees-only stairwell to get to the top floor. Monty will talk you through the security system and I’ll help out with cracking the safe.” Miller quirked an eyebrow at the last statement and Bellamy relented, adding in a slightly exaggerated tone, “though you probably won’t need me.”

“Depends on what I’m dealing with,” Miller admitted. “You got a brand on it?”

“All I know is it’s an AMSEC wall safe; one of the real nice ones. Dial, not password.”

Miller considered a second before nodding. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Getting there will be the tricky part.”

“And me?” Octavia asked her brother, leaning over the couch so far that Bellamy was surprised she hadn’t fallen on her face yet.

“You’ve got the most important job of all,” Bellamy stated. “Car watch.”

“What!? Oh come on!” Octavia looked like she was gonna punch someone (probably Bellamy), but he didn’t blink.

“Hey, it’s important,” he argued. “If someone tries to snatch Monty, you can beat them up and save his ass.”

Bellamy immediately regretted his wording as Monty pulled an offended expression.

“Hey! I could defend myself if I needed to!” he argued.

At that, Miller made a noise suspiciously close to a laugh. Bellamy blanched as Monty’s glare turned on Miller. If looks could kill, Miller would’ve been a pile of smoldering ashes. He shut up immediately, assuming a look of total innocence (possibly tinged with a little fear).

Bellamy raised his hands in a gesture of peace, trying not to let distress permeate his voice. “Hey, whoa now. No need to overthink things guys. Monty, you can’t exactly fight and hack at the same time. And Octavia, this whole heist fails without him.” He thought about saying something to Miller, but the guy looked thoroughly chastised by the time Monty stopped glaring at him. “We good?”

Octavia and Monty nodded, and Bellamy lowered his hands.

“So we’re really doing it this time, huh?” Miller commented, sounding pleased.

“It’s about damn time,” Bellamy answered.

Octavia was biting her lip. “You think we’re ready?”

Bellamy took a second to consider, leaning back in his chair.

“Two more days to plan, and we’ll be as ready as we’ll ever be.”

 

* * *

 

“You sure you’re up to this?” Monty asked for the millionth time, eyeing Miller concernedly.

Miller huffed and rolled his eyes, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Can you stop asking me that? My dad isn’t dead. He just had a stroke! And why should I care anyways? It’s not like he gives two shits about me.”

Miller punctuated his point with a sharp right turn, and Bellamy knocked shoulders with his sister beside him. He grimaced and corrected himself, glancing over to see Octavia with her eyes focused on the drama in the front seat. If there was popcorn, she would be scarfing it down. Bellamy sighed and settled back in his seat.

“I know,” Monty replied quietly.

He glanced to the backseat before leaning closer to Miller and lowering his voice even more. Octavia leaned forward to try to listen in, then slumped back with a pout. Monty spoke softly, and Bellamy watched as Miller's shoulders relaxed and his white knuckles regained their usual colour.

“Thanks, Monty,” Miller responded, slowing the car to a stop.

“We’re here!” exclaimed Octavia, moving to get out.

“Not so fast,” Bellamy said, a firm hand to her shoulder. “You’re still staying here.”

Octavia huffed, but accepted it.

“Earpieces in, everyone.”

Bellamy grabbed a handful of earbuds, holding them out to the group. They each took a bud except for Monty, who pulled out his computer gear and put a fancy-looking headset on instead.

“Check, 1, 2, 1, 2,” Monty said into the mouthpiece.

Bellamy heard loud and clear in his right ear. He then checked that everyone else's earpieces worked while Monty got started on disabling the Fitzgerald system. The hacker's fingers flew across his keyboard as he mouthed letters and numbers to himself.

Then Bellamy turned to eye his reflection in the glass of the car window. His hair was slicked back neatly, a fake pair of expensive glasses perched on his face. He grimaced.

“Alright everyone. Miller, you stay here until I call it clear. Monty, are the lobby cams on loop?”

“One second…” More frantic tapping, then he grinned. “Got ‘em. Your path is clear. It’ll take me a minute to get the rest.”

Bellamy nodded and opened the door. He smoothed a hand over his uncomfortable suit as Octavia passed him the needle he was going to need to tranquilize and blur the memory of the secretary. He placed it inside his blazer and slipped out the door.

Octavia leaned out the door to look at him, and he searched her eyes for fear or doubt. There was only courage and confidence.

“Good luck, Bell.”

“You too, O,” he said, pride in his voice. Then the door was closed and he was gone.

The door guards waved him through, nodding at his forged ID without a second glance. A tension between his shoulder blades relaxed.

The secretary was a young woman with dark skin and darker freckles, hair piled high on her head in a complicated fashion. A tension inside him relaxed when he saw, realizing that he wouldn’t have to completely fake his attraction. He walked up to her confidently.

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Monty’s voice said in his ear, and he barely suppressed a laugh.

 

* * *

 

Soon he was being pulled down the hall and into a private office by his tie, the girl grinning slyly. Her red blazer was already hanging off one shoulder, and he could still feel the way her lips had felt against his. But the feeling was detached, and the memory of pressing her to the hallway wall just moments before was already fading.

Finally out of the view of the guards or anyone else in the lobby, his fingers drew the needle out carefully, holding it up behind her neck. She turned around then, and Bellamy grimaced at her betrayed expression.

“What are you do--?”

Her words were cut off as he injected her.

“Sorry,” he muttered, catching her falling body. He lowered her softly to the floor, then stood again.  “Monty, she’s out. Check the cams, then send Miller in.”

“Got it,” Monty answered.

Bellamy reached into his suit and drew out a black ski mask. He snapped his fake glasses together and put them in its place, pulling the mask over his head. No one could ever say that Bellamy Blake didn’t go all-out.

“Bell!” Octavia’s voice crackled in his ear. “There’s someone coming! I think they’re headed for the office, you have to drag her out of there!”

Bellamy’s head whipped around to the door, finally noticing the sound of footsteps coming towards him. He hooked his arms under the receptionist, hauling her upward into his grip as he spoke. “Is the hallway safe?”

“If you hurry,” Monty replied, voice calmer than Octavia’s.

Bellamy rushed the limp woman out of the room, turning down the hall. He was met with a metal door reading EXIT, and pushed through. The door weighed hard on his back, and he struggled to push it open fully enough to get the girl through, the footsteps nearing. Finally they were through, and he set her down, closing the door softly. It led into a narrow back alley, dimly lit by the moonlight. He checked to see if he was alone, eyes sweeping the glistening cobblestones all the way to the distant opening and rush of traffic.

He picked the receptionist up again, leaning her up against the wall next to a green garbage bin. When he moved to stand back up, he froze, the sudden sensation of being watched tingling in his neck. His hand whipped inside his suit jacket, fingers resting lightly on his gun as he rose from his crouch, eyes sweeping the alley once more. A glimpse of red dashed behind a wall on the roof across from him and his eyes fixed to the spot.

“Come out,” he ordered bravely. “I know you’re watching.”

He had to remind himself to breathe when he saw her. She was just like the newspaper picture, but oh, so much more. The Artist stepped out into plain view, standing tall on the rooftop. Her black trenchcoat fluttered along with her hair in the wind, red mask a screen of glossy indifference.

“Are you going to kill her?” her voice called, familiar and light.

Bellamy’s fingers twitched on his gun, still in his jacket. His other hand ghosted up to his mask, fingertips touching the black fabric softly as he thanked god that his face was hidden.

“No,” he answered honestly, before adding, “I don’t want to have to kill anyone at all.” There was a threat in his voice and she picked up on it, shifting her balance.

“Then what are you doing in a back alley with the unconscious body of an innocent woman?”

“How do you know she’s innocent? I could be just like you, posing her for the cops to find.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” The Artist answered, voice dry.

“Bellamy what’s taking you so long? I don’t have a visual on you,” Monty’s voice interrupted in the silence. Bellamy pursed his lips, head tilted to the side the earpiece was on; Monty was right, he needed to get back to the heist, and fast.

“Are we going to stand here all day or are you going to let me go?” he asked tentatively.

“If you want to leave, be my guest.”

Bellamy reached warily for the door, hand still fixed on his gun. As soon as he brushed the metal, The Artist flipped off the rooftop, rolling on the cobblestones and springing to her feet two meters away from him. Twin metal batons slipped out of her sleeves, appearing extended in her hands.

“But good luck getting through me first,” she growled.

Bellamy turned just as quickly, hand having never left his gun. He slid it out, both arms extended, barrel pointing at her chest. His head cocked to the side, sizing up the shot.

The Artist’s stance relaxed flippantly, and he could almost hear the smirk in her voice as she spoke.

“I know why you’re here, and I know you won’t shoot me. Fire at all and the police will be swarming this place in minutes.”

His teeth gritted in frustration as he realized she was right. The gun was really just a last resort for him, or to scare a guard until he had the chance to knock them over the head with the butt.

“Do you really want to test tha--”

Before he could finish, The Artist was already rushing him, weapons out. She took a swipe at his head and he ducked under her arm, slipping inside her defense. His gun hand was raised to knock her out, but she blocked with her other baton, metal slamming his forearm painfully, but not enough to do major damage. It almost felt as if she… was holding back? In this close, he could tell that she was smaller than him, but she made up for it with the extended reach that the batons gave her. She wasn’t quite as strong either, but she was fast, much faster than he could have even imagined.

His eyebrows snapped together in concentration and he grabbed her blocking arm, trying to get a blow in. She used her free arm to elbow him in the gut, twisting away from his grip. Before he could regain his senses, she whipped a baton around gracefully, knocking the gun out of his hand and likely bruising his fingers pretty badly. Air hissed out between his teeth as his eyes flicked to the clatter of the gun on the cobblestones. But The Artist was quick, and had already moved around to be in between him and his only weapon.

Bellamy raised his fists, moving forward smoothly. The second time he knew how The Artist fought; he was prepared. She swang her batons lightning quick, but he evaded them again, jabbing her in the side. They traded blows for what felt like an eternity, testing the limits of the other, a dangerous dance of fists and metal. But then he saw his opening. Instead of avoiding a swing of her baton, he grabbed the metal and pulled, throwing her off balance. As she tried to regain her footing he lashed out, planting a kick to her left knee, hoping to blow it out. She made a hurt sound, dropping down to her hands and knees as she stomached the pain.

Bellamy raised his arm to knock her out, but something in the reckless curl of her fists and halo of golden hair made him think twice. Though he had no idea why, anger boiled in him at the sight of the discouraged slump in her back.

“Amateur,” he spat. “You have no idea what you’re getting into. The good cops are dead and the rest are corrupted. Half the people here live off crime, either out of greed or desperation. You want to bring justice to this city? You’re delusional.”

He had thought the opposite once, been just as hopelessly hopeful as her, with his wild dreams of being in the police force. Now look where that got him. He lowered his hands and straightened, chest puffing out for having taught her a lesson about the cruelty of the world. He walked past her without a second glance, reaching for the fallen gun.

Suddenly he sensed movement behind him and The Artist was attacking him again, batons twirling. Sure, her shoulders were hunched in pain, but her knuckles were white on the grips of her weapons, flying and deadly. He barely fended off her first few blows, taking more hits than avoiding. She was untouchable. He swore and sweat and swerved, watching in awe as her hair flew about recklessly. Her movements were all fire and rage this time, and he finally understood why her mask was red.

Bellamy was backed against the wall, chest heaving, blinking rapidly as The Artist stalked closer, stepping gingerly on her injured leg.

“Which criminal are you? Greed or desperation?” she asked, breathing steady.

He mustered a frown at her probing.

“Some of us are just born into it,” he answered.

“Don’t you have a choice?” she continued, coming even closer. Of course she kept her weapons raised, pointed at his throat.

Bellamy barked a tired laugh, bitter and mocking.

“Sometimes crime is the lesser evil," he shot back.

"Or the easy way out."

"That too."

Bellamy's grin was feral, and he cocked his head to the side, watching The Artist watch him. She raised her baton to his throat, slow and careful. His breath slowed, the wild light in his eyes dimming as she pressed the metal to the cold stubble beneath his chin. It was a threatening gesture, but impossibly intimate. Bellamy tilted his head back against the brick behind him, staring at The Artist's hidden eyes behind her plain red mask.

The baton creeped up, pushing at the edge of his ski mask. He blinked hard and turned his head sharply to the side, refusing the tentative gesture.

She let the weapon relax again, seeming to give up on her curiosity. Her free hand turned her other baton in circles, more habitual fidgeting than a display of skill.

His fingers were itching to push the baton away and lash out, to fight, to move. But something was holding him back, so he dug them into the wall behind him instead, challenge in his glare.

“Are we going to stand here all day or are you going to let me go?” he repeated, breathless again (but for a different reason, one he couldn't quite pinpoint).

Her raised hand relaxed slightly, but the tension between them still hung in the alley.

"Why should I?"

Bellamy's jaw tensed as he tried to put together the right words, eyes flicking down to the weapon at his throat. She pulled it back off his skin, but not far. He swallowed thickly.

"You said you know why I'm here. If that's true, then you know I'm not going to hurt her," he motioned towards the slumped secretary, "or anyone else. That isn't my business, if I can help it."

"But there's been times you couldn't help it," she stated. "And if you think you have to, you will again."

"Don't dance around words, princess, it's unbecoming," he spat. "We're both criminals here, you can say 'kill.'"

She stepped closer aggressively, weapon pressing against his windpipe once more.

"I'm not a--"

"Vigilante? Dealing out your own twisted justice in back alleys?" he asked ruthlessly, tone mocking. "Running from the cops at every turn, just like me?"

Her head twisted to the road at the far end of the alley instinctively and he laughed loudly.

She whipped back around to face him, arm raising to hit him again in anger, but he ducked underneath and her baton struck only stone. He struck quickly, taking advantage of her damaged knee, making sure to put a strain on it. She matched his every move despite it, only caught slightly off guard. She swerved to the side to avoid his elbow, but swore as her knee was shot with pain once again. Instead of truly capitalizing on her weakness, Bellamy lashed out and grabbed the front of her trench coat in his fists, lips curled in a snarl.

"The world isn't black and white," he lectured. "Good people do bad things. Bad people do good things. Want justice? Learn that."

She came to her senses and cracked her batons on his arms, just hard enough to make him drop her and back off.

"That's your justification for all this? Burglary isn't exactly a grey area," she retorted.

"I could say the same for you, princess," he said, repeating the name that had irked her the first time. Hell if he was calling her 'The Artist' so a mocking nickname would have to do.

Instead of responding, she lunged forward, jabbing at his ribs. He glanced the strike to the side with a sweep of his arm, wincing as it hit his already-forming bruises. He fainted a hit toward her side and she moved to block, falling for it momentarily. He was lucky enough to get a good grip of one of her batons, ripping it out of her hand so it flew to clatter on the wall. Oddly enough she jumped to retrieve it as it flew, panic in her movements as she lunged toward her weapon.

Time slowed, and Bellamy took the chance to lunge past her and do the same, rolling on the stone to get his hands on his fallen gun. She was quick, but not as quick as him, because soon he had the gun raised and pointing at her. The position was eerily similar to the beginning of their confrontation, except this time they were both heaving with pain and adrenaline. Her hand hovered inches away from her fallen baton. She straightened, leaving it on the ground but still gripping her remaining one.

"Don't move," he warned her.

She shook her head at him, taking a slow step backward. He cocked the gun, gritting his teeth at the click.

"You won't," The Artist stated confidently, taking another step toward the alley wall she jumped off of in the first place. Then she turned completely, hauling herself onto a dumpster and up a drainpipe, back on the roof from where she came.

He kept the gun trained on her until she slipped out of sight, the same red blur that had caught his eye.

Then she was gone, and he was alone.

Bellamy stood there in silence for a few moments, chest still heaving. The he walked a couple steps forward, leaning down to pick up her discarded baton. He turned it in his hands curiously, gun uncocked and stuffed haphazardly in the side of his pants.

“Bell! Get your ass back to the van already! Miller's got his eyes on the prize, I want you here when he cracks this motherfucking safe!” Octavia’s voice came to life in his ear, excited and loud.

He smiled fondly at her giddiness, then looked around himself with a start. He reached for the door, quickly slipping the metal baton into his jacket pocket. He'd have time to think about The Artist later.

Everything went off without a hitch after that. Miller didn’t need Bellamy’s help with the safe and Monty grinned like an idiot at the excitement in Miller voice when he said it was open. Bellamy sank back in his seat with a sigh of relief, only to be tackled into a hug by Octavia. Later Miller would drive them home laughing, one hand on the wheel and one in Monty’s. Octavia was ecstatic the whole time, jumping in her seat and yelling barely-coherent celebrations, recounting the most memorable parts of the heist. Monty stared at Miller and their joined hands incredulously at first, but soon relaxed, laughingly dismissing O's chatter with "I know, we were just there, Octavia!"

They all crashed at Bellamy's place and broke out the good beer, the night a swirl of "It really worked!" and "Fucking Fitzgerald's, guys!". Bellamy smiled when he was supposed to and nodded along, but his mind was somewhere else.

That night he dreamed of blonde hair and bloody cobblestones, of a familiar voice and black fabric fisted in his hands.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Bellamy gathered everyone for a team meeting, explaining the whole story of his run-in with The Artist. He placed the metal baton on the table as he finished, letting Miller pick it up and analyze it.

“And she let you go? Just like that?” Monty asked, concerned.

Bellamy shrugged. “We fought a couple times, but then I got the drop on her and scared her off. Before I knew it she was gone.”

“Shit, Bell,” Octavia said with a shake of her head.

Miller spoke up, tone serious as always. The baton was balanced carefully in his hands, like it might attack him at any moment. “We should lie low, postpone putting the ring on the market. It’d be stupid to put ourselves back on her radar.”

“He’s right,” Monty agreed. “For all we know she’s just waiting for an excuse to take us down.”

“All of us?” Bellamy said incredulously. “Miller, you’re probably twice the fighter she is.”

Miller barked a laugh. “God, I wish.”

Monty leaned forward with a curious expression, eyes alight as he plucked the baton from Miller’s hands. He ran his fingers over it just like Bellamy had been doing all morning, then suddenly stopped and held it up to the light.

“There’s an inscription here,” he said, squinting at the small circular side of the baton.

“I know,” Bellamy answered, having discovered it earlier. “I needed a microscope to see it, but I’m pretty sure it’s the letters J. G."

"Initials,” offered Miller, peering over Monty's shoulder.

Monty made an annoyed face at Miller's breathing down his neck and booped him on the nose with the end of the baton. Bellamy snorted a laugh as Miller pulled back a bit and blinked in surprise. He wanted to speak up and tease them, as he used to do very often, but he bit his tongue instead. Things were changing between the hacker and the thief, and he didn't want to spook either of them.

Octavia looked from Miller and Monty to Bellamy, and the two siblings shared a knowing look.

“Initials, eh? You think they're hers?” Octavia asked, breaking the silence. 

Bellamy snorted. “Unlikely. What vigilante puts their name on their weapon?”

“Clearly not a very good one,” Octavia agreed. “It's not that hard to beat your fat ass.”

He shot his sister a glare for the insult and she just grinned wickedly back, taking another sip of her drink.

“You guys are wrong,” Miller interrupted, looking even more serious than usual. "I think she let you go on purpose."

“She ran away!” Bellamy said dismissively.

“Bellamy, I don’t think you understand.” Miller’s tone was grave. “She never misses, she never quits, and never loses. If you’re alive, it’s because she wants you alive.”

Bellamy was stunned into silence. Miller sipped his beer and sat back, having said what he needed to.

“Well at least she likes you!” piped Octavia, finally crashing on the couch.

Bellamy frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“Well you’re not dead, are you? Or unconscious or whatever she does to people like us. I haven’t heard of her doing this before; clearly she has a soft spot for you.”

Monty laughed at the idea and Bellamy shot him a glare.

“Imagine that," Monty mused. "A criminal and a vigilante falling for each other. Sounds like a cheesy romcom plot to me.”

“I’ve barely even met her! And now you decide we’re in love?”

“Actually, he didn’t mention anything about love,” drawled Octavia. “You did!” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively and Bellamy put his face in his hands.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, Bellamy was climbing up his apartment stairs with his arms full of groceries. Like an idiot, he allowed his mind to wander back to last night. He hadn’t seen her face, but he felt like he knew her somehow. Strange.

Bellamy was jolted out of his thoughts when he ran into someone, groceries toppling onto the landing as he stumbled. He hid a wince as his bruises and aching bones protested the hard jostle.

“Shit, sorry!” the person exclaimed, reaching out to help pick up his groceries.

It was his cute neighbour, Clarke. She wore sweatpants and a long sleeve, a huge travel mug gripped in her hands. They had run into each other a couple times since she moved in the month before. Each time Bellamy’s back would straighten and his eyes would fly to the nearest reflective surface to check his appearance. Too busy juggling falling oranges to bother this time, Bellamy’s pulse shot up a little.

“No, it’s no problem, my fault, really,” he said, flashing her an apologetic smile.

As he spoke, her head whipped to stare at him like he had killed someone. “You,” she said cryptically, the word falling off her tongue like an accusation.

“Yeah, me. Something wrong?” Bellamy asked. He stopped picking up his groceries to look at her with concern.

“Oh, no, um. Nothing,” she said, eyes still staring widely. “Here you go,” she said curtly, rushing to hand him his things.

Bellamy’s mouth opened and closed as she ran off down the stairs. She held onto the railing tightly, moving with a slight limp. Why did he get the feeling that she was running away from him?

He ended up just shrugging to himself and continuing his hike upstairs.

That was weird.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment/kudos so I actually have the will to continue this. Feedback is great, and so are comments about what you want to see in the next chapter! Pleas take the time to write something down below, it means so much.


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